You don't have to read what follows, but if you do, thanks.
If you don't read it I offer the following video to you instead, which may be the cutest thing the internet has ever offered: http://ia300114.us.archive.org/0/items/SimonWhitakerPoppyandHarry/Poppy_and_Harry.mov
Today I got a call from my mother saying that my uncle who lived with us for many years died last night, peacefully, after fighting against much pain.
He was diagnosed with cancer not long ago, it had already spread through most of his body and there was "little they could do" by the time anyone told me. Nobody was able to diagnose him sooner because he was on so many illegal substances they didn't know what was happening to him.
Most of this guy's life he was a user. Of drugs, of people. He spent a lot of time in jail, or "Argentina" as he called it when talking to my nieces and nephews. He did a lot of hard drugs, owed a lot of money, and ruined a lot of lives.
He spent the last dozen or so years taking advantage of my parents, living under their roof and exploiting their resources, making a general nuisance of himself, and when not causing pain, causing frustration.
He was also responsible, in part, for my family losing their business back in the 70S, forcing my dad to give up his Pharmacy practice, instead finding work as a welder at the shipyard. At least that's what I've been able to piece together from fragments of stories picked up from various relatives.
Honesty is about as common a trait in my family as albinism. I have no albino cousins to the best of my knowledge.
He has a daughter, and four grandchildren. He wasn't close with them. She is quite successful, married to a significant politician, she's a wonderful person.
Over the prior two years, when she'd called asking for him, whether he was there or not, my mother would faithfully inform her that she'd just missed him. I don't know why he was so afraid of his daughter. Maybe he felt ashamed, or embarrassed. I don't know.
Despite all of his faults, and her efforts to connect with him thwarted, his daughter was there nearly every day of his last
week. She has accepted responsibility for the funeral, and whatever needs to be done.
My uncle never did any harm towards me, (except for selling me a death-trap of a car that I intended to take across country that broke down halfway from Massachusetts to Florida, and setting up my friend with a terrible lawyer that almost got him deported. I forgave him for that years ago, approaching him after he had avoided me out of shame). He could be likable when he wasn't k-holing in the kitchen, or (rubber gloves pulled up to his elbows) obsessively picking lint off of the stairs preventing me from going to or leaving my room for hours at a time. He always had a riddle or a brain teaser on hand, and appreciated my cooking, most of the time. He told good jokes, and played the fool quite well to the amusement of others.
His idiosyncrasies will be remembered. Children loved his zany antics, his nonsense languages, his perpetual narration which featured strange phrases formed by juxtaposition of the first syllable or letter of one word with the first syllable or letter of the following word, like a stroke victim might, only intentional. Saying things like "Mood Goorning" when he came downstairs for coffee.
His daughter loved him, with a daughter's unique love, despite everything. And she will miss him.
My nieces and nephews who were entertained by the strange old clown who lived in their grandparents' attic will miss him.
My parents...they are relieved (I imagine, as I am a continent away and can only infer meaning from a shift in the pitch of my mother's voice on the phone), but late at night there will be a stillness instead of activity from the upstairs room. And the hallway will be devoid of silly voices and poems recited in junkie pentameter. The sore in their sides where the thorn once stuck will heal, and they will eventually miss him.
I don't think I'll notice any difference for awhile. I'm saddened, of course, but not shaken. Maybe a little bit of shock is responsible for that. But I know that when I go back to my parent's house, and climb the stairs, I'll still listen for him. I'll secret to the kitchen to raid the refrigerator at 3 in the morning, and expect him to walk in, just passing through on some insane mission to the back yard to do the devil's work, as he'd done so many times. But he won't.
As I walk through the front door to my parents house after a year (or whenever I go back), I'll greet my parents, sit down for a cup of coffee, and absent-mindedly ask after him, regretting the words the instant they leave my lips.
But I don't think they will correct me.
Instead, perhaps, they'll inform me that I've just missed him.
And I will.
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